‘Oh, they went ’ome,’ said Rachel, ‘and I don’t really mind payin’ two and six.’
Crikey, thought Sammy, a girl her age able to spend all that much on a present for an old aunt was unusual in Walworth.
‘Well, Rachel, I want yer to know the set ain’t ordin’ry or common,’ said Sammy. ‘It’s quality, cross me heart.’ He gave her another smile because her brown eyes looked so trusting. Her dark lashes did another little fluttery dance. ‘That’s honest, Rachel, believe me. Funny thing, I ’ad this idea you might come back, so I said to meself, Sammy Adams, I said, don’t sell that set to no-one else, give Rachel a chance to show up again. If you do sell it, I said to meself, and she does show up, you’ll never forgive yerself. I can’t ’elp saying I like yer, Rachel, and sometimes a feller’s got to let ’is kind ’eart rule ’is business principles.’
‘Crikey,’ breathed Rachel, fascinated, ‘don’t you talk all over the place? My life, not ’alf. How old are you?’
‘Sixteen,’ said Sammy, able in his looks and gift of the gab to stretch the truth reasonably. ‘It’s me first age of responsibility, yer know.’ He began to wrap the set, using spare tissue paper around each piece. ‘I think you’re fourteen yerself.’
‘Oh, but I’m nearly fifteen,’ said Rachel, who wasn’t.
‘Well, I don’t tell a lie, Rachel,’ said Sammy, ‘it’s nice to ’ave met yer.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ said Rachel, and let a little sigh escape. Sammy Adams was just about the most natural and friendly boy she’d ever known. It was sometimes hard being a Jewish girl among so many Gentiles. Some, like Ivy and Ethel, didn’t worry a bit. Others seemed to suspect she was capable of putting the evil eye on their grandmothers. Some boys stood up for her. Others called her names. Young street kids were easier, they simply either liked you or didn’t, never mind what your religion was. Rachel instinctively felt that Sammy Adams had a liking for one and all, except those no-one could like, even if he was sharp enough to be in charge of this stall. Rachel wasn’t simple. She knew about markets and how they were run. It was just that shyly nice feelings for Sammy had been born because of how cheerful and friendly he was, with a smile as natural for her as it would have been for the prettiest Gentile girl. It was his natural friendliness that made her decide to detach herself from Ivy and Ethel and return to the stall.
An elderly couple came up, looking for a cheap glazed basin.
‘Serve them first,’ said Rachel, ‘I’m not in no ’urry.’
Sammy sold them a better quality basin, seeing the elderly lady’s Sunday hat was of a superior kind. Then he finished packing Rachel’s purchase into a small cardboard box.
‘There, ’ow’s that?’ he smiled, and Rachel felt almost guilty at liking him so much already, seeing he wasn’t of her own kind. ‘If your Aunt Delilah don’t like the set—’
‘It’s not Aunt Delilah, you silly, it’s Aunt Hannah,’ said Rachel.
‘Well, good old Aunt Hannah,’ said Sammy. ‘If she turns ’er nose up at the set, me name’s not Sammy Adams. Can’t say fairer, can I, Rachel?’
That was something else she liked about him, his friendly use of her name.
‘Oh, the set’s not for ’er,’ she said, ‘it’s for me, to decorate me dressin’-table. I just bought some ’ankies for Aunt Hannah. Well, I thought I’d like Goldilocks and the three bears for meself. D’you think they’ll look nice on me dressin’-table?’
‘Pretty, like you,’ said Sammy, and Rachel went just a little pink. Here, watch what you’re saying, he told himself.
‘I think you’re nice,’ said Rachel.
Help, thought Sammy, if I’m not careful something expensive could happen to me, and it won’t be just the expense of a tuppenny seat at the Fleapit. A girl in a frock like that will expect a sixpenny seat somewhere posh.
‘Well, I’m nice to me fav’rite customers,’ he said, ‘but I’ve got a hard heart mostly, yer know. It’s what business does to a bloke.’
‘It’s not done it to you,’ said Rachel, laughing. ‘You ’aven’t got a hard heart. You’re just saying that.’
‘Well, ’ere comes the hard-’earted bit,’ said Sammy. ‘Two and six, if yer don’t mind.’
‘Oh, that’s not hard-’earted,’ said Rachel, ‘that’s easy.’ She opened her purse. Sammy blinked. The purse was rich with copper and silver coins. She picked out half a crown and gave it to him.
‘Rachel, it’s yer lucky day,’ said Sammy, and handed her three pennies.
‘What’s this for?’ asked Rachel.
‘Discount,’ said Sammy. Two and threepence was the correct price, of course, and two and a penny if seriously pushed.
‘But you’ve got to make a profit,’ said Rachel.
‘Pardon?’ said Sammy.
‘Well, you ’ave to in business,’ said Rachel.
‘Blow me, Rachel, you said that out loud. Blessed if you ain’t a girl after me own ’eart.’
‘Oh, d’you think so?’ said Rachel.
For the first time since going into long trousers two years ago, Sammy had an horrendous feeling he was going to fall overboard.
‘Profit keeps a business goin’, yer know,’ he said, ‘and I’ll remember you for yer kind remark.’
‘Oh, thanks,’ said Rachel. ‘I – well, I s’pose I’d better be on me way ’ome.’
‘Good luck, Rachel, nice to ’ave met yer, honest,’ said Sammy, feeling another few minutes with her might sink him. His pocket actually hurt at what that might cost. A customer arrived. Good timing, thought Sammy. ‘So long, Rachel.’
‘Oh, d’you work in the market every day?’ she asked.
‘Well, I’m in the market ev’ry day,’ said Sammy.
‘That’s nice. Goodbye, then.’ Rachel looked wistful as she left.
Chapter Three
It was still morning when the Germans began shelling the road between Amiens and Albert. The trouble was that they held the high ground south-east of Thiepval, and their observation posts always had the road to Albert in view. So from time to time they shelled it. They opened up this morning out of habit rather than with any real reason, it seemed, for there were no columns of marching troops to strafe, and very little traffic, military or otherwise.
An Army lorry did appear, however, a few miles from Albert, belting along towards the town. And a hundred yards behind it was a new Wolesley ambulance, keeping its distance to minimize the target factor. The shells were straddling the road, exploding on either side in a welter of flame, smoke and flying earth, the tired ground softening the impact and reducing the violence of the blasts. The lorry thundered on, and the ambulance, due to be delivered to the combined Red Cross and St John headquarters in Albert, followed. It would be suicidal to stop. Polly Simms, at the wheel, grimaced.
‘Keep going, Polly,’ said Alice Hurst, her co-driver.
‘If that lorry cops it, they’ll need us,’ said Corporal Johnny Jones of the Medical Corps, seated on the other side of Alice.
‘Light me a fag,’ said Polly as another salvo variously exploded a little way ahead of the lorry, which visibly shuddered but went on. Polly was edgy. So was Alice. They’d been driving ambulances on the Western Front since September 1914, and no matter how hardened they became month by month, there were always times when nerves were ragged and prayers were said silently.
With all eyes on the pitted road and gashed earth, Johnny lit three cigarettes, one for each of them. Alice stuck one between Polly’s lips. She drew on it and exhaled smoke through her nostrils. Over came the whistling shells. One hit the edge of the road midway between the travelling vehicles. The roar of the explosion coincided with the crump of other shells ploughing into earth. Dirty smoke and showers of disintegrating soil painted their obscene pictures in the light of the June day. The blast of explosion rushed, and its heat struck at the great box-like ambulance. Polly, Alice and Johnny felt that heat fan around their faces.
‘Nasty,’ said Johnny.
Cr
ump, crump, crump. Further shells pitched into the war-torn earth to the right of the road a hundred and fifty yards ahead. The lorry kept going, running into and through the violently disturbed air and the ragged drifts of smoke. The ambulance, still keeping its distance, rocked and swayed in its wake. Polly, after several drags on her fag, chucked it away, at which point the shelling stopped as suddenly as it had begun. Just north of Albert, a British battery opened up to remonstrate with the Germans for disturbing the peace of this summer Sunday. Or so Johnny said in so many words. Polly thought, what peace? When were the guns ever silent? Would she ever get their echoes out of her head?
‘Road clear, lovey,’ said Alice. She was a young cockney woman of twenty-three, hailing from Albany Road, off Camberwell Road, south London. Polly was nearly twenty and upper class, the daughter of General Sir Henry Simms, a corps commander. The two young women were firm friends for all the difference in their backgrounds.
A clerk in a factory office before the war, Alice took a first aid course with the Camberwell branch of the St John Ambulance Brigade in 1913. She was also taught to drive. The moment war broke out in 1914, she applied to join an ambulance unit that was being made ready for service in France. She was accepted. A typically lively and resilient cockney, with fair hair, hazel eyes and very passable looks, she sent her mum up the wall in her determination to do her bit as an ambulance driver. That wasn’t what a girl was for, protested her mum. Why couldn’t she be a nurse? Alice said she couldn’t, not now she’d been accepted into the ambulance unit and was going to France any moment. Her dad said well, good on you, Alice gel, you won’t be out there long, the war will be over by Christmas.
Alice was out there by early September, when she met Polly. They were thrown at once into their missions of mercy, along with male colleagues, by the great battle of the Marne, when the Old Contemptibles of the British Expeditionary Force and the soldiers of France finally stopped the awesome German advance and forced a retreat. But the casualties were tremendous, and Polly and Alice endured their first traumatic days of driving ambulances laden with wounded men to the field casualty stations, and from there to the casualty clearing depots.
Polly was an upper class caution, a madcap. She had no time for the kind of rules, regulations and red tape which, in her opinion, got in the way of commonsense, and she had lied about her age when enrolling. Eighteen then, she got away with a declaration that she was twenty-one. With a thick crown of dark brown hair, wide grey eyes and piquant features, Polly could look a picture of endearing and vivacious charm, with no outward sign of her strong will. She was irresistibly likeable, a young woman who recognized she was advantaged by birth. Privilege, however, had never spoiled her, and she took people as she found them, irrespective of their background. She was quick to befriend Alice, a lone cockney among the primarily middle class women drivers, and helped her whenever it was expedient to cock a snook at authority. Authority was unpopular to the men and women of France and Flanders. It had too much in common with the attitudes of dogmatic generals.
Polly was a well-educated and sophisticated young woman. Alice, with an elementary education, was undeniably gauche when she first arrived in France, but she soon learned what the facts of life were on the Western Front. She and Polly knew it was a desperate struggle for survival as far as the Tommies were concerned, and as for the women ambulance drivers, theirs was an existence fraught with anger and bitterness at what was expected of the men of the trenches. Polly and Alice had seen service in Flanders and France, from Ypres down to Amiens. Like almost all the other ambulance women, they had a very special relationship with the Tommies. But by 1916, every woman knew what the maxim was. Make love with them, if you want, but don’t fall in love, for they’re all dead men.
Polly and Alice, with Corporal Johnny Jones as escort, had collected the new ambulance in Dieppe three days ago. They were given twenty-four hours leave there to relax and unwind before beginning the journey to Albert. The two young women took turns at the wheel during the two days of driving. Polly was still at the wheel when they finally arrived in Albert, when she brought the ambulance to a stop outside the headquarters of the combined services, the Red Cross and St John. She stretched her limbs, then climbed down, a supple young woman notable to the Tommies for her brittle sense of humour, her attractive figure and her legs. Most women drivers wore breeches. Not so Polly and Alice. They wore khaki jackets and tough serviceable knee-length skirts, peaked caps, lace-up boots and woollen khaki stockings. They both had good legs and didn’t mind giving the appreciative Tommies a look. What Polly and Alice would have relished at times was the feel and look of silk stockings.
Alice followed Polly down, and Johnny alighted on the other side. Due for an immediate Blighty leave, he said, ‘Ta for the ride, me loves. Could’ve been quieter. Don’t get tight and break your legs while I’m away. Wait till I come back, eh? I don’t want to miss the privilege of tyin’ splints to your good-lookers.’
‘Hoppit,’ said Alice.
‘Love to Blighty,’ said Polly.
‘So long,’ said Johnny, a wiry old married man of thirty. Off he went to his billet to pick up some kit and his travel warrant. Quite a few personnel had been getting Blighty leave lately, due to a lull in the affairs of war in the Somme sectors.
Polly and Alice delayed reporting their arrival for a few minutes, Polly digging out a packet of Players Navy Cut from the pocket of her rumpled jacket.
‘Another fag, Alice old sport?’ she said.
‘Won’t say no.’ Alice took one, Polly struck a match, and they lit up and relaxed. They needed to, for they felt as battle-scarred as the town itself, held by a division of General Rawlinson’s Fourth Army. As much as the men themselves, Polly and Alice thought the interval of quiet was suspicious, like the lull before a storm. Something big was being cooked up. Polly had no illusions, and was entirely sceptical about what would come of it, apart from more horrendous casualties. Only the Tommies themselves knew the Germans and their tenacity through and through. The planners, who never came face to face with the enemy, as the Tommies did, relied on maps, numeracy and logistics.
She and Alice smoked their fags reflectively, faint little rims around their eyes. In nearly two years of service, they had driven a succession of ambulances over roads pitted and gouged by gunfire, and frequently in the worst kind of weather. They knew exactly what it was like to come under fire, and most of all they knew what exploding shells and machine-guns could do to the men of the trenches. Wounds could be ghastly. Polly’s father, General Sir Henry Simms, had lately been reprimanded for stating his opinions on the deadly lot of the Tommies too frankly to the British Commander-in-Chief, Sir Douglas Haig.
Polly saw the Tommies as a strange breed of men, with little or no respect for the powers-that-be, and they reacted with earthy cynicism to all mention of gallantry and heroism. When they got hold of newspapers that recorded battle incidents in such terms, their comments were obscene and ribald.
‘But at least you can look each other in the face,’ said Polly once to some such men just out of the line, ‘and that’s something, isn’t it, you old gasbags?’
‘Aye, it’s summat, lass,’ said a Northern man, ‘but nowt to do with what you’re thinking on. More to do with do I owe Nobby a fag, or does he owe me, by heck. Any road, lass, when Jerry starts his bloody shooting, we start bloody ducking, and there’s an end on it.’
But for all their irreverence, they obeyed orders. They went over the top to be shot to pieces, and when the survivors reappeared, they were gaunt of face and blasphemous of voice. They fought and they died, the new recruits, the early volunteers and the Old Contemptibles, and Polly thought that those who died somehow lived on in those who survived. They were imperishable comrades, the dead and the living. It was this, the never faltering nature of their comradeship that made Polly absolve them of all their sins and omissions as men. It was a comradeship that took in Polly, Alice and other women of their kind.
&n
bsp; Polly had long had a feeling that somewhere among these thousands of cynical, earthy and sooty-eyed men, tough young officers, hard-bitten NCOs, gunners and privates, there had to be one on whom she was destined to make a very personal claim. It was an odd feeling, a ridiculous one at times, yet it kept surfacing. They were all Tommies to her, whatever their rank, those who were men of the trenches or the gun batteries. But somewhere, she felt, there was one who had to be special, special to her, and to her alone. She was not so fey as to go looking for him, but sometimes she did glance with interest at faces new to her. Again there was a ridiculous element, that of feeling sure she would know a certain man was the one as soon as she looked into his eyes.
She came out of her reverie as Alice touched her arm.
‘We’re in the way, ducky.’
They were, they were standing with their backs to the ambulance in the middle of the street, and marching at ease towards them was a battalion of the Royal West Kents, packs on their backs and their rifles slung, tin hats at all angles. At their head, on horseback, was their battalion colonel. Their supply vehicles were in the rear. They were marching in the easy, tireless way of veteran infantry. Was there any difference between them and any other infantry battalions? Not to the eye, thought Alice. All British infantrymen looked the same in their worn khaki, their steel helmets and their gait.
She and Polly took themselves out of the way, and the battalion began to pass them. There they were, a long column of khaki, officers at the head of each company, sergeants alongside their platoons.
‘Watcher, me popsies,’ said a man out of the corner of his mouth.
‘Watcher, old ’orseface,’ said Alice.
‘See yer, maybe?’
‘Can’t wait, can I?’ said Alice, and the man was gone, with his grin. Another made himself heard.
Echoes of Yesterday Page 3